


Please, Don't Leave

by ladypigswagon



Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Journalism AU, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, columnist!Stiles, fashion critic!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles stares at the computer screen, eyes glazing over. He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t looking at a computer screen, it seems like decades ago. He rubs his eyes, leans back in the crappy computer chair and stares at the ceiling instead. He hasn’t written a single word all morning. Not a goddamn word. Not even a title. His column is barren. Just like his love life a snarky voice that sounds suspiciously like Lydia says in the back of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please, Don't Leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/gifts).



> cywscross asked: "Please, don’t leave." for Steter? Happy ending would be nice.

Stiles stares at the computer screen, eyes glazing over. He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t looking at a computer screen, it seems like decades ago. He rubs his eyes, leans back in the crappy computer chair and stares at the ceiling instead. He hasn’t written a single word all morning. Not a goddamn word. Not even a title. His column is barren. _Just like his love life_ a snarky voice that sounds suspiciously like Lydia says in the back of his mind.

Stiles leans back to slump over the desk, fully prepared to just die here. It’s not like he hasn’t had writers block before, he remembers last July where Lydia forced him to take a holiday because every article he wrote was pure garbage. Stiles knows why he can’t write anything. It’s because his life is dull. Nothing has happened to him and nothing ever will. He’s doomed to live out his days doing nothing of note. His gravestone will say he was born, he lived, he died.

He needs fresh air. He needs a fresh start. This cubicle, not matter how homey Stiles has made it, is a box and that’s what Stiles needs to think outside of. He chuckles at his own joke, ignoring the judging stares of the Captain America and Black Widow posters.

Stiles leaves a garish pink post-it note outside his cubicle, above his bronze nameplate. The note simply reads **VENTURING INTO THE UNKNOWN, BACK SOON!** Stiles leaves the office, rolling the sleeves of his plaid shirt to above the elbow and relishing in the sunshine after spending the better part of the morning pulling his hair out over the bloody column. Everything else was fine, latest film review easy. Latest album review, piece of cake. But no his column is the hard thing because as previously stated his life is a dull, unending, barren nothingness. Stiles buys himself an apple bubble tea with strawberry bubbles from the vendor outside the Beacon Hills Community Park before he goes hunting for a suitable area of grass where he can laze and attempt to come up with a column. Understandably the park is full of families and whilst Stiles doesn’t mind people, he’d rather find somewhere more remote.

He meanders around listlessly until he finds a copse of trees. Stiles wanders inside, enjoying the shade and seclusion. He walks deeper; enjoying the way the sunlight is dappled on the mossy ground. Eventually the trees open up onto a small glade. Stiles buzzes with excitement but…

It’s occupied…

Stiles excitement deflates like a popped balloon. The man lying in the glade has a book over his face, hiding it from view. Stiles backs away slowly, not wishing to disturb anyone. He takes a step back and CRACK!

Stiles freezes, eyes wide. The man sits up, book dropping onto the grass. Stiles recognizes him now that he can see his face. It’s Peter, the guy that writes the fashion articles and it always impeccable dressed. Stiles has made a point of hiding in his cubicle when Peter walks by so that they don’t engage in conversation because Stiles is likely to say something embarrassing like I want you to bend me over my desk and fuck me.

“Sorry,” Stiles blurts, feeling like Peter’s analyzing him with those bright blue eyes, “I didn’t realize anyone was here. And then I did and I don’t want to disturb you, so I was leaving and I kinda accidentally stood on twig which disturbed you so sorry.” Stiles is rambling and doesn’t know how to stop. “I just wanted to find somewhere quiet because my column just isn’t coming you know. Not coming, I mean I can’t write it, cause no inspiration. Not that you care. So yeah I’m leaving now.”

Stiles turns to leave, fully aware of his strawberry red complexion. He’d never going to live this down. He’ll spend the rest of today hiding in his cubicle, lamenting his misfortune on the phone to Scott.

“Please don’t leave,” Peter says, cutting into Stiles internal monologue of shame. Stiles stops, swings round on his heel. Peter’s eyes sparkle like sapphires in the noonday sun. Stiles mentally restrains himself from uttering anything akin to a sonnet about them.

“It’s Stiles isn’t it?” Peter enquires. His white V-neck is low and tight. Tighter than his jeans, which Stiles didn’t know was possible. Also bare feet. Stiles is refusing to acknowledge how gentle that makes Peter look.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Stiles says, aware how taunt his voice sounds even to his own ears.

“Critic and columnist,” Peter says, voice softer than velvet and sweeter than honey, “You really are the whole package.” Stiles shrugs in what he hopes is a nonchalant way.

Peter pats the grass next to him and beckons Stiles with the other hand. Stiles walks over mildly entranced. Peter is grinning, for lack of a better work, like a wolf. A wolf that is charming a deer into its claws. Stiles recognizes that he has accidently made himself Bambi in this analogy but there we go. There’s something predatory about Peter.

Stiles flops down onto the soft grass, aware of how close he is to Peter. Peter doesn’t seem to mind. In fact Peter is leaning closer, only a breath away. Up close Peter’s eyes are even brighter. Stiles has never seen that shade of blue before.

“Your eyes are simply gorgeous,” Peter says. Stiles snorts. “You don’t believe me,” Peter continues.

“My eyes are brown,” Stiles replies, “No-one waxes lyrical about brown eyes.”

“Brown?” Peter questions, “Whiskey, amber, doe, golden and honey certainly. Brown is too limiting Stiles.”

“You’re a fashion critic,” Stiles points out, “Numerous synonyms for color must come easy to you.” Peter smirks at the comment, running a finger from inside of Stiles elbow to his wrist. Stiles doesn’t shiver, he doesn’t.

“Doesn’t make my analysis any less true,” Peter comments, tracing lines across Stiles forearm. It’s soothing but causes Stiles skin to tingle. Stiles looks up from under his eyelashes at Peter. Peter’s smug expression proves that he knows what he’s doing to Stiles.

“Are you doing anything later?” Stiles asks, almost breathless.

“Depends,” Peter replies, writing his name in Stiles skin with his finger pad, “Are you?”

“Dinner?” Stiles suggests.

Peter grins, leaning in to brush his lips against Stiles. It’s brief but full of passion. Almost like a promise. 

"It’s a date.”


End file.
